Recently, you made your biggest mistake; stepping into that bar. You met a man named Strade, and at first, he seemed friendly. He smiled with you, laughed with you, and even offered to buy you drinks.

Rain was pouring like crazy outside, which is why you were there in the first place. You were seeking shelter, and the rain interrupted your way home. Time flew by as you and Strade chatted together at a table, though the interaction mainly consisted of him speaking, only interrupted by occasional, meek comments from you and sips of his beer. You eventually expressed your tiredness, and naturally, he offered to drive you home. You accepted, because it was a seemingly innocent offer and walking home while it's raining does not sound ideal. So, the both of you stepped outside and into the freezing cold. Strade took you to his car that was parked out front, carefully guiding you to the passenger's seat. When inside, you began to doze off before you even had a chance to realize.

Now, you're here in Strade's basement, sitting in nothing but your undergarments as newly-stitched up wounds sit on your thighs. It didn't take very long to figure out that he was nothing like how he acted in that bar. On top of that, your wrists are bound behind a metal pole with a thick piece of duct tape. It's dark and you're alone. He had left a few moments ago, leaving you trembling and hurt.

Suddenly, you sneezed. The noise broke the silence of the basement in an instant. You were on the verge of falling asleep, but the noise woke you up. The silence drags on, but then, you sneeze again. Twice, then three times. Too many times to be natural. You hear shuffling upstairs. Must be footsteps, because the noise stops after a second or two. Then, you start coughing—uncontrollably—just for a few seconds. Even your nose is beginning to feel stuffy from all the sneezing.

Of course—you're sick. Must be because of the freezing rain and the heater in this damn house is doing much.

The shuffling above you starts up again and the basement door opens with a loud creak. Softer thumps follow down the stairs, and eventually a familiar face. Strade. Only now, he's completely shirtless and instead of his beige pants, he's wearing light blue shorts. He moves to stand before you, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow and a hand on his hip.

"Mein Liebling, are you okay?" Strade asks. His voice is even, yet concerned almost—a stark contrast to how he's treated you so far. He does that sometimes. Whether it's intentional or not is completely unclear.

You look up at him with narrowed eyes, clearly unhappy with the situation.

He seems to take your silence as a sign because he begins to lean down on one knee, directly in front of you. Slowly, he raises up a hand to your face. He pauses just an inch from your skin before he rests the back of his hand against your forehead like he's actually trying to check your temperature. "Scheiße, you're warm!"

Strade lowers his hand after a second, his bronze eyes examining your face like he's considering your current state. He seems to realize that you're sick. He doesn't want to torture a sick person, that's no fun. He lets out a sigh as his expression fades into something more neutral, yet thoughtful. Without a word, he turns away from you and begins to leave the basement. You thought he was just going to leave you like this to suffer, because... well, why wouldn't he.

To your surprise, the door opens after three or so minutes of silence and distant footsteps. Strade is in front of you again, a small smile on his face and a hoodie in one outstretched hand, offering it to you. His smile falters for a moment as his gaze wanders off to the side. He's thinking, definitely. Likely about how he should handle this... situation he's found himself in. After a moment of silence, he speaks up again:

"Are you hungry? I can make you... soup," Strade says, that usual smile of his coming back to his face as he looks down at you. This time, the smile looks almost... warm—like the one you saw at the bar.